


public promises (to fulfill a private obligation)

by Roccolinde



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Pegging, Spite Sex, marriage of (in)convenience
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-16 08:55:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28704018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roccolinde/pseuds/Roccolinde
Summary: Jaime has not been in King’s Landing long when he is summoned to the Tower of the Hand. His father is waiting, and he barely deigns to give Jaime a disapproving once over before stating his intentions.“You will leave the Kingsguard and marry the Tarth girl,” he says, settling behind his desk and folding his hands.“Pardon?”Jaime’s first thought, somehow, is not that his father has played him well or how unsuitable Brienne must appear to someone like his father, but howcruelsuch a declaration would be to her. He had expected the Kingsguard, but notthis.A season 4 canon divergence that is mostly an excuse for PWP.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 68
Kudos: 195
Collections: JB Festive Festival Exchange Stocking Stuffers 2020, Jaime x Brienne January Madness





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kirazi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kirazi/gifts).



> Title comes from Marianne Moore's poem "Marriage", just because it pleased me to quote a poem that is deliberately ambiguous about marriage and the implications for women to do so. It seemed fitting. Not used because it was even more of a stretch, but will likely haunt me wasthe bit that calls marriage "This firegilt steel/alive with goldenness" that one needs criminal ingenuity to avoid. 😂
> 
> In a moment of pure cheek, I have made this both a stocking stuffer for the lovely Kirazi and a fic for [The JB Monthly Madness prompt](https://jbmonthlymadness.tumblr.com/post/639256725067792384/jaime-x-brienne-monthly-madness-january) for January.

Jaime has not been in King’s Landing long when he is summoned to the Tower of the Hand. His father is waiting, and he barely deigns to give Jaime a disapproving once over before stating his intentions.

“You will leave the Kingsguard and marry the Tarth girl,” he says, settling behind his desk and folding his hands.

“ _Pardon?_ ”

Jaime’s first thought, somehow, is not that his father has played him well or how unsuitable Brienne must appear to someone like his father, but how _cruel_ such a declaration would be to her. He had expected the Kingsguard, but not _this_.

“She’s a Higborn woman, Jaime, and you travelled alone with her for weeks.”

“As her _prisoner_ ,” Jaime says. “I assure you, no liberties were taken with her maidenhood, and if she had any concern of that she was welcome to _not drag me across half of Westeros_.”

Tywin grunts. “And if that is all that had occurred, there would be no concern at all. But you returned to Harrenhal for her, and made an absolute fool of yourself.”

“It was a big bear,” Jaime sneers, but Tywin only arches one eyebrow disapprovingly.

“ _That_ could have been dealt with. But you offered a ransom, above and beyond the fair price they had rejected, and Bolton’s men have been quite happy to tell the tale far and wide. I’d think it was her hand behind it, if I’d not had her watched every moment since her arrival.”

Seven fucking hells, of course he had. “Lady Brienne is the only reason I have returned, you cannot—”

Tywin waves his hand. “There is naught to do about it now—you will not shame this family any further.”

“The Kingsguard serve for life.”

“A minor detail.”

“No, it is _not_.”

Tywin jerks his head towards Jaime’s arm. “You think you can protect your king like that?”

It is the first time his father has acknowledged his missing hand, and Jaime wishes he had continued his deliberate ignorance.

“Any knight worth anything knows how to fight with his off-hand,” he counters, though he knows it is not so simple. His father pays it no mind, regardless; Jaime could not have expected anything else.

“No. Vile rumours still surround Joffrey. You will leave the Kingsguard and secure the future of this House, and in doing so secure his place on the throne. Lady Brienne is _not_ who I would have chosen for you, but she is in no position to argue. However she found herself serving Catelyn Stark, her house has been sworn to the Baratheons for generations. Her father was loyal to Robert and now Joffrey. She will do as well as anyone.”

Whatever Selwyn Tarth’s loyalties, _Brienne_ had served Renly, and Jaime doubts she’s the sort to be swayed by patriarchal preferences. Not that he has any intention of saying so—disagreement is the quickest way to make her an enemy to be crushed beneath his father’s heel, and he does not wish for that.

He suspects there is more to his father’s machinations than he acknowledges—Tywin Lannister rarely reveals himself so easily, and he has wished for Jaime to reclaim his place as heir for years; there must be layers upon layers behind this scheme that Jaime cannot see. Perhaps his brother will, though Jaime is not certain he would want Tyrion’s opinions on the matter either.

“I’m sure she’d be a perfectly fine bride, if I were looking for one,” Jaime says. He means it as a defense of one he considers a friend, but the moment he hears the words he knows how his father will take it—a foothold upon which to mount his assault and breach the walls Jaime had so carefully erected with oaths and knighthood.

“Well, you will no doubt be quite content then,” his father says. “On another matter…”

Jaime somehow gets through the lecture of duty to his house as Tywin explains to him that Ned Stark’s sword had been reforged into two, and one will go to him and the other to the King. His grip fumbles when the sword is presented—his muscles are still not what they had been before his imprisonment and he misjudges the weight as a result—but he recovers quickly.

“It is wasted on you now, of course,” his father says, “but you can keep it until your son comes of age.”

 _The one on the throne, or the one you would thrust upon an unwilling woman?_ he refrains from asking, knowing that a petty strike will cost him too dearly to be worth the momentary satisfaction.

“ _If_ Lady Brienne agrees,” Jaime says.

“She would be a fool not to,” his father replies, certain as ever the world will bend to his will. He has never crossed words with Brienne of Tarth, however, and Jaime very much looks forward to the result.

***

He finds Brienne in the Godswood, watching Sansa as she does every day. She’s dressed in a split skirt and tunic, a vague concession to being at court; she looks well, whatever reception she has received in the capital, and he is almost loath to disrupt it with his news. Still, he must. She does not approach Sansa, preferring to watch from afar, which suits him well. He sidles close, slightly offended when she barely reacts to his presence.

“You’ve caught the attentions of my father,” he says, leaning against the rail that overlooks the bench where Sansa sits.

“And what is that supposed to mean?” she replies; weeks of testing every boundary between them, seeking every weakness to press upon, tells him there are nerves beneath her calm exterior, even if others might not see.

“It means you’ve become a cyvasse piece upon the great board Twin Lannister calls life. Welcome.”

She snorts, her grip on the rail tightening. “Does he know…”

“That you intend to see Sansa Stark safe? I doubt it occurred to him you might ever consider it.”

“That is… good,” she says quietly, nodding.

“Perhaps. You may be less pleased when you learn what he plans instead.”

She sighs. “He wishes me to pay, for my failures.”

“Your—” Oh, the hand. He tries to give his most sardonic grin. “Lady Brienne, this” —he raises his arm— “was entirely my own actions, and I will not have you taking the acclaim for it. No, I’m afraid it is far worse.”

“Renly, then?”

“He probably wishes you did kill him,” Jaime says, regretting the flippancy of his tone when she winces. “No, he means to reward you with marriage.”

“Marriage,” she repeats, incredulous. She tilts her head back, as if to feel the sun on her face, and sighs. “I suppose it is some comfort that he is no more likely to find a willing groom than my father was.”

“He already has.”

“ _Fuck_.”

“Now now, my lady wife should not use such language.”

She laughs, a short, sharp bark. “Ser Jaime, this is not amusing. I thought you sincere at first.”

“I am. I’m sorry to say he’s already begun arranging the septon. It must be small, so as not to eclipse the much greater marriages to come, and tasteful, as befits the future Lady of the Rock.”

She turns to face him fully, crossing her arms as she judges whether he is in earnest. She must find he is, because she drops her arms and turns back to Sansa.

“This is brilliant,” she says. “Better than we could have hoped.”

“Not the response I expected,” he replies.

“No, it is— I thought he had meant to marry me off to some old man in… the Reach, perhaps. The Iron Islands. Somewhere far from Lady Sansa. But _you_? I will finally have reason to befriend her, and when there is a chance to make our escape, you will not stop me.”

“Serendipitous indeed,” he says dryly.

“And when I disappear,” she continues, “you will be free to do as you will without fear of being married off, or you can plead your case to the king to reinstate you to the Kingsguard if you can have the marriage annulled. It will benefit us both.”

“You forget, Lady Brienne, that marriage comes with expectations.”

“I would not hold you to them.”

Jaime shakes his head. “I’m afraid my father would.”

She bites her bottom lip, her gaze focused entirely on Sansa. “If we… Would it upset your sister greatly, if we…”

“Fucked?” Jaime supplies, and Brienne blushes furiously, blotches spreading across her cheeks and down her throat.

“Lead your father to believe we had,” she says. “Soiled sheets, the occasional overseen moment… It is nothing I have not seen before.”

He considers it. It is not a lie they would have to play at for long, and there’s an odd sort of satisfaction at the idea of spiting his father so cleverly. Not that he would have imagined Brienne of Tarth, the great lumbering woman with honour for a spine, would have ever dreamt of such a scheme, but it seems she is full of surprises yet.

Jaime looks down at Sansa Stark below them, her head bowed and her face hidden. She is still only a child, and he made a vow. A vow he could have easily kept if his father had not defied guest right in a bid to win the war.

“Very well,” he says. “If you’re in agreement, then we shall.”

“And your sister?” Brienne asks. She still does not look at him. “I do not wish to— I will not ask anything of you but that you do not… If you would be discreet, with your sister, I… I do not wish to be made a fool of, even if the marriage is a facade.”

Jaime snorts, because it is easier to jape than to examine the truth. “Believe me, whatever desire my dear sister once held for me was lost in a Riverlands forest along with my hand. This will be no sacrifice at all.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I added a chapter, because it turns out I couldn't manage spite fucking and dysfunctional Jaime/Cersei dynamics in the same shortish chapter. So, uhhh, here's a chapter about the wedding with a strong warning that J/C's dynamic is all about sex as power and it's not particularly pleasant.

It takes the better part of a fortnight to arrange the wedding, but his father is determined to have it done before the guests arrive in King’s Landing for Joffrey’s marriage to Margaery Tyrell. Cersei comes to Jaime once, coy at first and then furious that he would sell himself so cheaply—not that he would sell himself, no, but that he would do so with someone she had deemed _unworthy_. 

“I will do my best to make sure you approve of my next wife,” he says dryly. 

“Or you could break this betrothal,” Cersei says, her hand lingering against her throat. “You do not have to do this.”

“The same way you do not have to marry Loras Tyrell?”

She gives an artful sigh and throws herself upon his bed, though there is a chair nearer. 

“You know it is not the same,” she protests. “Father insists—”

“Father always insists. I am not the one who had agreed time and time again. I am not the one who—”

“Do you love her?”

He knows Cersei merely wants reassurance of his devotion, but he finds he does not have the ability to give it to her, not this time. She has barely come to see him since his return, avoids his hand or sneers. Tells him that he had taken too long, abandoned her. 

“Cersei—”

She waves a hand. “Nevermind. I imagine she’ll grunt like a stuck pig when you fuck her. Unless you already have?”

“Leave the lady out of this, Cersei,” he sneers, harsh words more persuasive than gentle ones. “It is an ugly look on you, as if you believe you have reason to fear her.”

“Of course not. I’m merely concerned for you, that is all. Are you certain she has a cunt?”

“If she does not, it would be all the more difficult to fuck her,” Jaime replies. “Surely that would be an advantage?”

Cersei rises from the bed and strides across the room. She grips his chin, her fingernails digging into the flesh of his jaw, pleasure and pain together as they always were.

“Careful with your words, brother,” she purrs sweetly. “I’m beginning to think you lost your cock along with your hand.”

He bares his teeth in a grin. “You’re welcome to see for yourself.”

Her eyes scrape over him, her grip tightens. “I don’t believe I will,” she says. “Unless you wish to beg for it. On your knees.”

“I would,” he replies, standing, dropping his voice and leaning in to her ear, “but I have a wedding to prepare for. Do let me know if you change your mind. Might as well dine once more before you begin to smell of roses.”

She’s silent as he strides for the door, and in his rage he forgets and reaches for the cursed thing with his right—Cersei snickers then, and he pulls the door open with more force than is necessary. Brienne will undoubtedly be in the Godswood once more, and so he heads there.

She’s walking with Margaery Tyrell, who links her arm through Brienne’s and seems to _simper_. Jaime does not trust a Tyrell any more than he trusts a Lannister, and from Brienne’s stiff posture he can only presume she feels the same. Still, he is surprised when she sees him and turns to Margaery, saying something with that gentle not-smile of hers and then pulling her arm away so she can approach Jaime alone.

“Has something gone wrong?” she asks, once they are close enough not to be overheard. “Has Sansa—”

“Lady Sansa is well. I believe. No. I— There is naught wrong, I had thought to join you on your stroll, but I see you have a companion.” He bows. “Apologies, Lady Brienne.”

She looks at him strangely; evaluating him, he thinks, and it takes all his foresight not to hide his maimed arm away. She has seen it all already, every good deed and ugly thought. Or perhaps not all of them. Finally, she nods.

“Nonsense, Ser Jaime. You are welcome to join us. It will serve our ruse well,” she says, voice low, and then _does_ seem to smile, though he can not identify how, “and Lady Margaery is quite— much.”

“Well then, my lady, it would be rude of me to decline.” He bows again, then offers his own arm as one might escort any lady. She looks at it in suspicion, and he grins. “Quite right. How thoughtless of me. Let us rejoin the Lady Margaery.”

It is quite a pleasant afternoon, so much so that he almost forgets the strange encounter with Cersei, how familiar it had been and yet… not. It unsettles him, and when they eventually return to the Keep and intend to part for the night he makes a point of drawing Brienne close and pressing a kiss to her hand, a man courting his betrothed and not—

“Be wary of my sister,” he whispers, when they are as near as they can be. 

“I do not think she can gossip half so cruelly as men in an army camp,” she replies, and Jaime’s hand tightens.

“She would—” He does not know what Cersei would do, can remember all the things she has done to those who would move against her; he is not as certain as he once was that they _had_ conspired against Cersei. “Be wary. Please.”

She gives a confused, short nod and takes her leave, and in bed that night he allows the day to play out again and again in his mind. He cannot protect Brienne, but cannot leave her undefended either. Perhaps… Yes, that would do well.

And so it is that on the morn of their serendipitous wedding that she comes to the sept with a Valyrian steel sword upon her hip, and Jaime tells his father that a sword meant for his son will be in no safer care than the boy’s mother-to-be. It is a risk, but all of this is. And there are few he would trust so well to take it with.

***

They are set in an apartment within the Keep; it comes with two bedchambers, but the night of their wedding they retire to the larger of the two and set about making the room up. Two goblets of wine are poured, and Jaime drinks them both, leaving dregs for those who would look. Brienne snaps a lacing from her tunic and drops it onto the floor, and when Jaime arches an eyebrow—when he cannot help but wonder if the choice is her understanding of relations between men and women, or a desire of her own—she blushes furiously and yanks the covers back with force. It is not strange to sleep beside her, though he is more accustomed to the hard ground and little cover from brushes than a feather mattress and warmth. She is restless though, and finally sighs.

“May we— If your arm is well, may we switch positions?”

He is on the right side of the bed; to switch would put his stump between them. It would be simple to say it was still tender, that he did not wish to risk further injury; instead he silently rises and rounds the bed, and she does the same, settling the sword against the wall at her side. 

“The lion pommel is a bit much,” Jaime says, for something to say, “but it will serve you well when you leave. Have you thought to name it?”

She shakes her head. “Only a— It would inspire too many questions, my thought,” she says. “It shall remain nameless.”

“Surely you can tell your husband,” he says dryly. 

She doesn’t reply, merely settles herself into the bed once more and the silence stretches through the dark, broken only by moonlight through a window.

“Oathkeeper,” she finally replies. “I thought to call it Oathkeeper.”

_I should like that_ , he means to say, but finds the words stick in his throat.


End file.
